


Songbird (Be Gentle With this Heart)

by maxisnotokay



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Blood and Injury, Car Accidents, College Student Keith (Voltron), College Student Lance (Voltron), College Student Pidge | Katie Holt, Confessions, Gen, Hurt Keith (Voltron), Insecure Lance (Voltron), Keith (Voltron) Angst, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Keith (Voltron) is a Mess, Lance (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Lance (Voltron) is a Mess, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oops, Pidge | Katie Holt is a Good Friend, Pining, Protective Lance (Voltron), Snow and Ice, Worried Lance (Voltron), idiot driving in a dark snow storm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 09:54:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28469352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxisnotokay/pseuds/maxisnotokay
Summary: Keith considers himself to be pretty responsible.Keith also just got into a major car wreck, refuses to call 911 out of his own stubborn pride, and it just so HAPPENS that the only person he can reach is Lance McClain.Keith is responsible because he doesn't hang up the call. But telling Lance that he's really kinda stupid hurt? That's a different story.
Relationships: (mentioned) - Relationship, Keith & Lance (Voltron), Keith & Pidge | Katie Holt, Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 251





	Songbird (Be Gentle With this Heart)

**Author's Note:**

> this definitely could have been longer but I'm in a whacky little funk and also depressed so take ya scraps

Katie Holt always joked that Keith was too stubborn to recognize an emergency involving himself if he got smacked upside the head with one.

It was with good reason, in her defense—he’d suffered through many long nights writing college essays with cotton stuffed up his nose to muffle the sniffling from his roommates’ hearing, and he was voted most likely to kill himself trying to drag people out of some burning building _two_ years in a row at Allura’s fancy annual New Years parties—but Keith argued that Katie Holt tried to hide a broken arm from him and Lance for four _days_ after she’d hurt herself like _that_ was a good idea, so she didn’t have a lot of room to talk.

Katie Holt wasn’t there when his car swerved on a patch of ice at 11pm in the middle of a snow storm. Katie Holt wasn’t there when he flipped over the railing, back over front, or when he landed. When he blacked out. Katie Holt wasn’t there when an emergency smacked him upside the head like this one did. Katie Holt wasn’t there for any of it.

He woke up in stages.

The first was the slow buzz of his hearing starting to fade in again. Fuzzy and disoriented, his heartbeat locked in place like a drumline in his consciousness—the only thing he could make out clearly. Inky black crawled away from the center of his vision like ants beginning to scatter. His breath billowed out in a steaming fog. Every nerve in his body pulsed.

He’d crashed. That was a crash. He’d spun out. He’d… on a rural road. When was the last time he’d seen another vehicle?

“Fu-ck,” he exhaled, voice cracking. It was the only thing he could think to say. He’d crashed. Katie Holt should see him now.

His seatbelt dug into his chest like a vice, suspending him to the leather grip of his seat while he became acutely aware of the fact that he was strung upside down. The darkness surrounding his car didn’t help his blinking vision. He could feel the icy grip of the wind outside fanning over his face. Snow. Snowstorm. _Fuck._

One of his hands, through the black leather gloves clinging to his skin, fumbled to his side, shaking at the clasp of his seatbelt. It only took a half-second for the pressure on his chest to release. For another, he was falling.

Keith shouted when he hit whatever was below him—likely the dashboard—in the wreckage that was left of his car. His legs barely shifted. He wasn’t sure he could feel them. That wasn’t good. That definitely wasn’t good. He pressed his cheek to cold metal and inhaled smoke. His vision spiked again. A hoarse, pitiful noise of protest rang through his ears for another moment.

He wasn’t in any pain, but… how could he trust that? Adrenaline was preventing him from feeling _anything._ What if he’d broken his ribs? Punctured a lung? He had no way of telling.

The groaning noise continued, and he suddenly realized it was _him,_ wheezing for air.

It was then that he tasted copper. Copper metal, like the color of rust, but too _warm_ all the same. _Blood._

_“Fuck.”_

He took another few seconds to focus on his breathing. His lungs expanded. He inhaled. 

He’d _crashed._

Vision fading in and out, he found himself blinking rapidly to clear the flecks of darkness that weren’t going away. Get it together. Get it _together._ Lance _told_ him to run to the store earlier that morning because he _knew_ this storm was coming, but he hadn’t—he didn’t—

 _“Shit,”_ His tongue flattened in his mouth, too dry and too wet. He’d catch hell for this. Lance was going to _kill_ him when he found out.

Something in his car shifted. Metal groaned.

Keith tasted more blood, and his vision went blank.

For a fraction of a moment that followed, somehow feeling infinite all the same in which his brain _whited_ out, too full of static to comprehend _anything_ around him, that name was the only thing he clutched onto. _Lance, Lance, Lance._ He held it like a monument, like a lifeline. He could choke on it, drown in it. That name was important. That name was very, _very—_

His phone buzzed. Tucked away in his back pocket, it rang with the jarring tune of some 2000’s pop song Katie Holt had set it to a few days prior to embarrass him at work when she called him out of the blue.

Katie Holt.

Barely aware of himself or his surroundings anymore, numb fingers clawed at the fabric of his jeans to find his phone, to bring it level to his face. His vision almost blacked out again from the intensity of the blue light it emitted. A splinter stretched down the center of the screen. More blood trickled into his mouth, dripping from the crack of his lips and down to his chin. The contact name, glowing and brilliant and beautiful: _Lance McClain._

He clicked _answer._ He pressed it to his ear.

 _“I_ told _you to leave earlier,”_ he said matter-of-factly, mockingly. His voice was like a songbird, ringing and solid and _real._ Somewhere in the background of the call, Katie Holt laughed.

 _“But does he listen? No. No, of course not. The great and mighty Keith never listens! Well, I figured I would call instead of text, so you wouldn’t crash upon hearing the sound of my beautiful voice.”_ Something metal clinked against metal. He might have been prepping a meal. _“According to the news just now, there was a huge crash up on Brewer Street. It took them a few hours to get to it, through the storm. If you haven’t already passed it,_ mullet, _I’d be careful of the ice.”_

Despite himself, Keith felt his mouth twitch. The irony didn’t escape him, even through the rush of the adrenaline beginning to trickle away—even with the dull ache in his ribs it brought. He knew it would probably get sharper as time went on. He was… he was in trouble, huh? This was bad. If he hung up and called 911, would they get to _him?_ He didn’t think he had a few hours. He didn’t think he had very long at all. He reached for the door handle to his left. Tried to pull it. He tried to wiggle his toes in his shoes. Neither… Neither moved.

This was really, really bad.

 _“Oh!”_ Lance continued, as if his silence was to be expected. He probably thought he was rolling his eyes at him. That didn’t sit right, suddenly. _“I found a bag of those weird chip things you like behind the cabinet. It must’ve fallen a while ago, but it’s unopened! This one’s, ah…”_ a bag crinkled. _“Ew. Ew. Gummy worms and… s—”_ he cut himself off. He could imagine the face he was making, with the way his brows scrunched and his mouth pulled. _“Sour cream. You really eat these, dude? As a hobby?”_

Keith swallowed. Then he said, “Don’t diss the chips. They’re good chips.”

Lance went quiet. When he spoke again, he was still smiling, but his tone had raised in pitch. Confusion. _“Did you get sick on us, man? Only people with antibodies get to go to the water park next week. Hunk’s very fragile, you know. He’ll catch his death.”_

It was weird, not having Lance insult him with every other word. They’d kind of come to a shaky truce last year, but it was still—fresh. Wounds weren’t all healed, words still cut sharp. But to hear Lance joke around like this? Even if they _were_ rooming together, it was still unfamiliar to hear him sound like… that.

Keith’s other hand raised to press his phone harder against his ear, clutching it. He was practically laying on his broken windshield, feeling the bite of the snow against his bruised back. “Hunk licked a swing set the last time we hung out because Pidge—” he coughed. It was an awful sound. Guttural. Wet. Warm blood dripped faster. “Pidge dared him to.”

 _“Are you okay?”_ Lance asked quickly. He didn’t sound like he was smiling anymore. The rustling of the bag stopped.

Keith blinked. Inhaled. “Listen—”

_“Keith.”_

“Did I ever tell you,” he said quietly. It was like the words fell out of their own accord, fueled by panic and fear and the pain in his ribs growing sharper each moment. “That you looked really pretty when Pidge set up the Christmas lights? They were blue. The glow was… nice. It’s your color.”

Another beat of silence. He could picture his face then, too, gone slack in surprise. He thought he could hear Pidge ask something else in the background, but his hearing was starting to fade again.

“Sorry, that was lame,” he said. Then he clutched the phone tighter. If he was about to die, he was going to swallow his pride. “Actually, I’m not sorry. You’re pretty, Lance.”

_“You’re scaring me. Where are you?”_

He closed his eyes. “Lance.”

 _“Keith, what happened?”_ Panic. It was starting to seep through the line.

Maybe he shouldn’t have said that.

“Kinda… uh. Shit.”

Another beat passed where absolutely nothing happened. Or maybe it did. Maybe he just couldn’t hear it. Okay. That was fine.

“Got into a crash,” he managed.

Instead of a scream like he had kind of expected, or an immediate beration, Lance spoke into the phone again like he was pressing it to his mouth. It was a nervous habit he'd developed, years ago. _“Okay. Where are you?”_

“Just, uh… you know Grove Street? By the park?”

Lance’s voice came through again, a little faded. _“Call 911.”_ Then he got a lot louder. _“Okay. You’re okay. Are you hurt?”_

“Lance—”

 _“You tell me if you’re hurt right now,”_ he demanded, and his voice wavered. There was that flare of defiance Keith had grown to find endearing, stoked by anger and fear.

“…Yeah. I am.”

 _“Why didn’t you—”_ he cut himself off for a second, but continued just as sharp in the next. _“Why didn’t you_ say _anything, you idiot?”_

Keith exhaled. “Lance, it’s… it’s bad. I didn’t want to—I don’t think I’m gonna—”

 _“Shut up,”_ he snapped.

Obediently, Keith’s mouth clicked shut.

 _“You shut up right now. You’re going to be_ fine, _and when we meet you in the hospital, I’m going to bring your stupid_ _chips to your room and you’re going to—”_ a short, tight sound broke through. It took him a second to realize it might’ve been the beginning of a sob. Keith squeezed his eyes shut. _“And you’re going to eat them and you’re going to be okay. Do you get that? Do you understand that?”_

“Careful. It’s starting to sound like you care.”

 _“Keith,”_ he said again, with a kind of desperation only he possessed. _“Shut up.”_

“Lance,” Keith whispered.

_“If—”_

“I meant what I said about the lights,” he said quickly. Weakly. “But I don’t like that sweater. It has a puffy neck. You look like a cat mom.”

His sob turned into a laugh, but it still cracked. _“You don’t like my sweater?”_

“No. It’s ugly.”

He laughed again. _“Then I’ll wear it to the hospital to see you. Just so you know what I think about that.”_

Keith smiled again, despite himself. Lights danced behind his eyes. “Atta boy.”

_“You’re going to be okay, okay?”_

Keith swallowed again. He almost believed him. He was going to believe him. He’d have to.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll… see you there. Okay?”

Another exhale on the line.

If he responded, he didn’t get to hear. Everything faded at once, too abrupt to process. It was a welcome darkness. It was a welcome world.

(He cracked his eyes open again next to hear an ambulance’s siren burning through his veins. Lance’s contact was still glowing on the crack of his phone. His name ringing in his voice... sounded like a song.)


End file.
